At The Beach

Having arrived at the beach after a drive down I37, we’ve taken up a station just over the dune from the beach in a condo furnished with all of the amenities (spell check isn’t working on the limited wifi sources so just deal with the grammar assault here) required for a witty yet lethargic blogger to plop his rump on a couch and thumb a dispatch to the web.

You should be glad. Last night I saw an advertisement on SyFy for a movie featuring Jersey doosh bag look alikes fighting sharks. In my opinion, this is just a signal that the end of the world is a little closer than the Mayans previously suggested.

None the less, estamos aqui.

The condo is decorated in a motif consistent with “Hmmm, what’s that smell?” Wifey and I managed to squat the bedroom with the full/queen sized bed. Wifey’s twin and her husband will be gettin’ busy in the other bedroom pushing the two twin beds together before they can get to gettin’ busy.

There’s a horse shoe pit down in the yard. Close counts in horse shoes, so if I just happen to thump someone on the cabeza, I’ll still rack up a point or two.

More to come.


Randy Tharp

TharpSter is a husband to one woman, a father to two kids, a master to two dogs, an occasional cubical occupant, and unable to make up his mind on an adequate theme for this website.

Type something witty and eye catching right here: